Page 31 of My Fixation

My hand is still on his forearm, and I feel the heat of him under my palm, the strength still there even through the injury, even through everything he’s been through, and something in my chest tightens in a way I can’t ignore anymore.

“You’re not something I can walk away from,” I say finally, the words slower now, more deliberate, like I’m choosing them instead of reacting. “I tried to tell myself you were. That you were just someone in a bad situation that I could help and then leave behind.” I shake my head once. “That’s a lie I told myself.”

His gaze sharpens slightly, searching, like he’s trying to find the angle, the catch, the part where this turns into something he can reject.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” I admit, holding his eyes, not looking away, “but it’s not charity.” A beat passes. Then, quieter, I add, “And it’s not going away.”

Silence stretches between us again, but this time it doesn’t feel like a fight.

“I’m tired, Conor. So fucking tired.” The words sound different than anything else he’s said. They’re not sharp. Not angry. Just worn down.

I don’t move when he drags his hands down his face, when his voice cracks around the edges of something he’s clearly been holding in for too long, because this isn’t the moment to interrupt, to fix, or to take control. So I wait. I let the silence sit.

“Fuck, I don’t even know what I want at this point,” he says, his voice rough and uneven. “I just know that I want it to stop. The pain, the fear of what happens next.”

Something in my chest tightens hard at that, but I don’t speak. He looks at me, and I hold his gaze, steady, grounded, giving him something to anchor to if he needs it. And then he tells me. About the fight. About Henry. About the warehouse. About the men in suits and the money and the fact that nothing about it was normal.

My jaw tightens as he talks, each detail painting a clearer picture of exactly what this was, of exactly how far Henry stepped out of line. This wasn’t just a fight. It was an execution. Or meant to be. And Jaxon was supposed to be the one who didn’t walk out.

“The fighter, his name was Yuri.”

I file it away immediately, but my focus stays on him. On the way, his breath starts to break. On the way, the memory is pulling something physical out of him.

“As soon as they closed the cage door… we were told we didn’t stop until they stopped it or one of us was dead.”

That’s it, that’s the confirmation. Something cold settles into place inside me. He takes another shaky breath, and when the tears fall, something in me shifts again, something protective and sharp cutting through everything else.

“I fought hard, and I think—” He looks away, his voice faltering. “I think I killed him.”

His hands are clenched so tight his knuckles are white, like if he loosens them even a little everything will fall apart.

“Yuri wasn’t moving,” he says. “I started passing out. Two guys dragged me out… and that’s the last I remember.”

Silence fills the space after that. Heavy and thick. I move before I think about it, closing the distance between us, my hand coming up to wrap around his clenched ones, not forcing them open, just holding them, grounding him.

“Hey,” I say, my voice low, steady, nothing like the command from earlier. I wait until he looks at me. “You don’t know that,” I tell him firmly. “You think it. That’s not the same thing.” I give my words a second to sink in. “And even if he is dead,” I continue, not softening it, but not letting him carry it alone either, “you were put in a cage and told to fight to the death.”

My grip tightens slightly, just enough for him to feel it.

“That’s not on you.” I hold his gaze, making sure he hears it. “Henry set that up,” I add, my voice dropping, something colder threading through it now. “Henry made that happen. And Henry is going to answer for it.”

Right now, my focus stays on him, on the way he’s falling apart piece by piece, on the fact that he’s still sitting here instead of running.

“You’re safe here,” I say again, quieter this time, but no less certain, “and I’m not letting anything else happen to you.” Not again.

I really look at him this time. Not just at his face, not just at the tears or the words he’s saying, but at everything else, everything underneath it, the things people usually miss because they aren’t paying attention. It doesn’t come naturally to me. Not to any of us.

But Mom made sure we learned the basics, drilled it into us until we could at least recognize when something was wrong, even if we didn’t always know what to do about it. Every person is different, she always said. You don’t read the emotion. You read the person and try to match the emotion. So I focus.

His shoulders are curved inward, not in a relaxed way, but like he’s trying to make himself smaller, like he’s pulling everything in tight to keep it from spilling out. His head is slightly bowed, not fully down, but not up either, caught somewhere in between like he doesn’t want to meet my eyes but doesn’t have the strength to fully look away. His hands are still clenched and white-knuckled. Locked together like if he lets go, even a little, he’ll lose whatever control he has left.

His breathing is uneven, shallow at first, then catching, then forced, like he’s trying to regulate it and failing just enough that it shows. And the tears, he’s not wiping them away. He’s letting them fall. That alone tells me more than anything else. This is someone breaking. It’s happening slowly and quietly, and trying like hell not to let it show.

I move closer, closing the last bit of space between us, slow enough that he has time to pull away if he wants to. He doesn’t. He’s still angled toward me, still folded in on himself, still holding everything so tight it looks like it hurts more than whatever is going on inside his body. It’s awkward at first. This isn’t something I do. Not like this, but I don’t overthink it. I just reach for him.

I wrap my arms around him carefully, mindful of his ribs, of the injuries, of how fragile he is right now, even if he’d hate me thinking that. And I hold him. Not tight. Something he can lean into if he chooses to. At first, he’s stiff. Every muscle locked. Like he doesn’t know what to do with it. Like his body is waiting for something else to come with it. A catch. A condition. But none of that comes. I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just stay. Letting the silence do what words can’t. Some of that tension starts to give. Just a little, but enough to matter.

He cries silently at first, his body still held tight, like even now he’s trying to contain it, trying to keep it from spilling over where anyone can see. But then something in him gives. Not all at once. His shoulders drop, and the tension bleeds out of him. The second he fully relaxes into me, the sound breaks free. Raw and uncontrolled.